Soul Khan - Stop Hitting Yourself lyrics

[Intro: samples of President Obama] Soul Khan Illingsworth on the beat And the raps with Virtue and Dom O Briggs On everything This motherf**er bangs Let's get this one pregnant [Verse 1: Soul Khan] Fresh out of carbonite stasis Dangerous, so entirely flames The inside of my veins Have got caramelized platelets Now all of my haters join the party like Magus The bona fide greatest Came with some humble advice Seen a lot of White Rangers Changing your colors and stripes For the sake of a couple of likes 'Cause you wanna die famous You're still lukewarm as a review for a food court The hoops that you're jumping through for success Are making me facepalm I'm basically napalm What I do's more essential than room, board, and s** So Hugh-Laurie-esque, your mother's sending nudes At school board events, I'm such a clever dude Like Duncan Penderhughes in huge Warby specs I'm cold, you just Cole trying to hustle rent-em-spoons Look at me mixing these metaphors and similes up And I don't give an amphibious f** Circling for crumbs, man that sh** is for ducks You couldn't test me if I pissed in a cup [Hook] Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself? Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself? Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop [Verse 2: Illingsworth] Now I'm Sherlock Holmes slash Yung Lean out of Stockholm And mixed with a black part Mixed with a Marvel vs. Capcom team of Cable, Sentinel, Blackheart While you bu*ton mash I'm clowning soon as the match start You speedwalking, I'm cartwheeling You sketching amateur caricatures I'm art dealing in suits made of the rarest most expensive starched linens My guard listens so much I wouldn't even [?] You still in charred denims It's faux pricey rap, promethazine, Dimetapp Instagram, tiny cats, [?], tiny hats Achieving more than superhumans can with brutish hands Standing out like fully-suited man on [?] [Hook] Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself? Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself? Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop [Verse 3: Dom O Briggs] Ready to spark on these tracks Kinda have that effect I'm kinda pompous on my balls Homie now give me respect I'm super chill though, don't ask me why my eyes low That means he got'em See, when I rap, I train apostles They say eating p**y makes your beard grow But I've been eating cats for years with my lo mein and my street flow Heh, and I still ain't got a beard yet I've always been the youngest child rebel, soldier, a little threat How'd your beats [?] your rhymes, f** your crew If you moves on up on my homies they be [miniscule?] You can't spar with the Brooklyn god My arms are ordained with scriptures, I'm mistletoe-fisted [Hook] Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself? Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself? Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop [Verse 4: F Virtue] Who the F is F Virtue? No one, 'cause no one's perfect Went from the cervix to the surface to Earth Prematurely stirring genetics and [?] scopes Getting a leg up before legs could balance on ropes A mongoloid thinking the bong's a toy Making retarded raps, how much fam have my songs employed? Diddy's kids [babysitter owns?] Sean John And anyone who started from the bottom's long gone I wouldn't diss dudes on my own tracks like K-Dog I only work with MCs I love, and I hate lots So guest features are with those I'd have as dinner guests Now let's get jealous and mad at what the winner gets